


Of Toasters

by abbichicken



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Birthday Presents, Domestic, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, M/M, Marmite, Nonsense, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-06
Updated: 2012-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-29 02:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/314684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbichicken/pseuds/abbichicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is excited about his birthday. John didn't know about it, and thus didn't get him anything. Mrs. Hudson did, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Toasters

**Author's Note:**

> (Absolute fluffy non-eventful nonsense I wrote as an aside to a very messy piece of kink that's otherwise consuming me; mostly finished in a hurry as I wanted to post it whilst it was still Sherlock's birthday!)

John awakens to a familiar scent. His thoughts drift a little along the line of its associations, until he realises with a start and a reflexive jerk where he is and what it means.

It's early.

Clearly Sherlock hasn't been to bed, and is, oh, for _fuck's sake_.

Sherlock is - as far as John can see, through the density of the atmosphere - swathed in his tattiest dressing gown, sucking with each and every breath on a cigarette. The ashtray sits in front of him, half-full. A duty-free-sized box of B&H packets smiles up at him, golden and resplendent.

"Oh, Sherlock..." John says, with that tired approach of someone who really shouldn't have to be placed in the faux-parental role. "Did you run out of patches again?"

"Oh, honestly," Sherlock says, banging his fist down hard on the table, with an anger that isn't at all irritable, or bad-humoured, and is thus virtually unrecognisable as Sherlock's own. "You've forgotten, haven't you?"

"Forgotten what? That you're categorically banned from smoking, not just in this room, but in this house, and indeed, in general?"

"Not today I'm not!" His tone is...triumphant?

"Go on then, tell me, why is it that today, you reserve the right to fill this place full of...smoke, and tar, and yourself with the potential for all manner of ailments. Tell me."

"Because..." Sherlock says, but the door goes, and the stairs clatter with Mrs. Hudson's familiar tread, a little faster and clumsier than usual, and Watson notices that he's applying Sherlock's 'method' unconsciously these days, piecing together facts where facts don't at all need to be pieced together as the state of things will be revealed any moment, because...

...yes, all correct, here is Mrs. Hudson, and yes, she is indeed carrying something rather large, and extremely well-wrapped, with an inordinately large bow and three different colours of ribbon wrapped around it.

"Happy Birthday, Sherlock!" she says, with so much joy in her voice, even Sherlock himself smiles. He allows her to give him a kiss on the cheek, and looks with amusement at the parcel she places on the table in front of him.

"Congratulations Mrs. Hudson, I am thrilled to see that you understand that I will know that, from the care and attention you have lavished upon my gift, you continue to be grateful for my presence in your life, and that you do, in fact, care for me as if I were the child you never had."

"Well I wouldn't say..."

Sherlock holds up a hand to prevent her from spoiling his magnificent deduction. "Silence! I accept this gladly."

John is shaking his head to himself. He gestures a _no-one told me!_ of desperation in Mrs. Hudson's general direction, but she doesn't so much as notice, as she's attentively watching Sherlock unwrap his gift.

Which he does in the single most irritating way possible - peeling each and every piece of sellotape from the paper in such a way so's not to even disturb the print, let alone tear the paper. Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands in excitement.

"Oh...YES! Sherlock shouts, as he unveils the gift at long, long last.

At first, John is sure that it must be something else in the box, that there's no way she can have thought it was a good idea to buy Sherlock a...no, no, Sherlock is undoing the box, casting an instruction booklet backwards, over his shoulder, and, really?

"A toaster?" John exasperates, turning to Mrs. Hudson with confusion. "What on earth did you get him a toaster for?"

"He asked so nicely, and, well, if he fancies a piece of toast or two, I think we should encourage him? Poor boy, I can't remember the last time he asked for food..."

"That's because he steals my food without asking at all."

"Oh now, it's his birthday, come on."

"Come on? He'll toast _frogs_ in it!"

"Don't be silly John, you couldn't toast a frog in this, not without a very complex adaptor of some sort or another, oh no, look!"

The toaster comes with a bun adaptor.

"This would be perfect! There's hope yet for crispy amphibians!"

John is wide-eyed, open-mouthed.

Sherlock laughs again - this is more in one session than in at least the last month. "It's a joke, John! Of course I don't want to toast frogs. Nor toads, come to that..."

"Oh...good."

"No, this will be the perfect incubator, I've heard that you can develop some quite fantastic bacteria using the "defrost" setting, I think it is, and..."

"Oh, no...Mrs. Hudson, what have you done?"

"I just gave him what he asked for, I'm afraid, I didn't think to check...goodness, we really should open a window in here, it's getting quite horrible, isn't it?"

"Quite," John says, still wondering what to do about the fact that he clearly has nothing to offer his friend and colleague on the only day that he has started in a good mood for quite some time.

"There's something else in the box, too," Mrs. Hudson says, encouraging Sherlock to pay slightly less attention to the crumb brush.

Sherlock extracts the machine itself - very shiny, very silver, and completely at odds with the rest of the tired-out kitchen - and some more paperwork, and then removes a small, additionally-wrapped shape.

"Heavy," he muses, to himself. "Is it jam? I do, in fact, like jam."

"Open it!" Mrs. Hudson encourages, and John chastises himself for having been outdone twice over.

Sherlock does so. Painstakingly.

When he reaches its contents, he displays that very rarest of things: an expression of confusion.

"Yeast extract with B vitamins. What could I possibly want this for, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Marmite?" John asks.

"Just my little joke," Mrs. Hudson says, with a broad smile. "I thought it would be nice for you to have with your toast...I didn't realise you'd be...incubating..."

"Very kind, I'm sure," Sherlock says, holding the jar up to show John, as if John would, similarly, never have seen such a thing. His eyes say, _does this mean something to you that I am missing_.

John doesn't answer.

Sherlock frowns at him, and lines the jar of Marmite up next to his cigarettes. "So, you truly did forget?"

"No, no, I didn't forget, I simply didn't know."

"Why didn't you know?"

"You didn't tell me."

"I'm sure I did."

"It's not like you to make that kind of mistake, Sherlock."

"No, it isn't, so, clearly, you _have_ forgotten. Either that, or you have prepared a marvellous surprise for me and you are aiming to double-cross me and are pretending to be the kind of careless, thoughtless being that would have forgotten the birthday of their nearest and dearest."

"Nearest and...what?"

"Enough of this," Sherlock says, taking yet another cigarette from the pack, and lighting it with a lighter that produces a flame large enough that John's instinct is to duck and cover. "Presuming you have something wonderful in store for me later, and that you are only going to waste time with insistent pretence to the contrary, the thing that I would like most is some space so that I may better acquaint myself with my new toy."

"Alright then dear," Mrs. Hudson says, "I'll pop up in a bit with some tea for you."

"Perfect," Sherlock says, without looking up.

John nods, and takes a long breath.

"Don't tell me not to burn the place down!" Sherlock interjects, as John is about to do just that. "I shall take the greatest of care."

"Okay. Okay...well, happy birthday?"

"That will do for now. Goodbye!"

And just like that, Sherlock is, once more, switched off to the world, and is fully immersed in folding up wrapping paper...and then unfolding it again...and then folding it...and John is not going to stand there and watch him doing origami with old paper all day, no. Sod it, he's going to get out of this hellhole and think of something to give Sherlock that won't result in explosions, fury or mould.

He goes to the pub, to think, and because they serve better coffee than the cafe. It's fortunate that pubs are open at 8am these days, although depressing that, even if they are meant to serve breakfast, they are still filled with the regular spread of alcoholics, sucking needfully at pints of bitter.

Sherlock passes the day in absolute delight. He has always enjoyed his birthday. He is surprised that others are surprised by this, but the basics of it are that one's birthday is really the only day where one may do anything and everything one wishes do whilst others are not permitted to judge or comment at all.

Mrs. Hudson brings him tea and cake _and brandy_ so clearly she didn't get the memo that Sherlock isn't drinking still, and Sherlock isn't going to remind her, because _it is his birthday_ and abstinence can come another day and damnit, today will _not_ be about his shortcomings, no, it will be only about his own brilliance, something well worth celebrating.

She comes up again in the afternoon, this time with a bunch of flowers, most of which are green, and some of which have thorns. They come without a card, which is momentarily exciting, as they could be a clue, a beginning to some mystery or other, but no, after a cursory glance Sherlock realises that they are only from Molly, and that, whilst this is odd of her, it is not something of any consequence. He tells Mrs. Hudson to do whatever is done with flowers, preferably well away from him. She ignores the increasingly bizarre scents in the room, as there are, at least, no visible flames.

Sherlock is having the best day he's had in a very long time. The toaster is capable of many fascinating functions. He is able to test carbon ratios and burn times of a wide variety of things, learning, he is sure, information that will be both rare and valuable; the very best kind of information to have.

But, by 5pm he is bored. The toaster will only say "fizz!" when he turns the dial on the left, and, retrospectively, it was something of a checkmate to test the toastability of an iPhone.

He shouts for John, but it appears that John is not in the flat.

There is no possibility of a 'phone call, as per above.

He's drunk the brandy, but it tasted weak, and it seems to have made little or no impact upon him.

Sherlock draws his knees up to his chest, which is tight and wheezing already with the subjective joy of two dozen B&H, and waits.

This is how John finds him when he returns, at only 5.15pm.

John's day was slightly less adventurous, but still fairly bizarre. First, he is accosted by a 9am drunk, red-faced and bushy-eyebrowed, stinking, but cheerful, who has a tale to tell about his ballerina sister who disappeared during the interval of a performance six months ago and whose shoes he has just been sent, rammed inside a beer bottle, accompanied only by a lock of hair that is not the sister's, nor relevant to anyone he knows, and then he is sought out, once again, goodness knows how by Mycroft.

"Good afternoon, John."

"Afternoon?"

"It's half-past one. I believe that's well and truly after noon."

"Goodness, right, yes."

"How long have you been drinking for?" Mycroft draws out a chair, and joins him, placing a condensation-laced glass of what appears to be gin and tonic down on the table.

"Not long enough," John replies, looking at the barely-touched pint of Guinness his earlier conversational partner had supplied him with.

"I see. Did you forget Sherlock's birthday?"

"I didn't know about it."

"Funny. He's usually very excited about it. I would be surprised if he hadn't briefed you fully on what he wanted."

"He asked Mrs. Hudson to get him a toaster."

"She didn't, did she?"

"She did."

"I see. And you got him absolutely nothing? And came here, alone?"

"I didn't know!"

"It is very strange that you think that this is acceptable. Nonetheless, we'll move on. I have, fortunately for you, taken the liberty of procuring one or two items for him, which you'll find will benefit you far more than you perhaps deserve, in the circumstances."

"Right..."

"Here," Mycroft says, about to push a cream-coloured envelope across the sticky, ringed table, but then thinking better of it, and handing it to John instead.

"Thank you...I hope."

"Sherlock will enjoy it. As for you, here..." Mycroft hands John a small, silver hip flask. "I had it made especially. Count it as an early birthday present for yourself. Between friends. It should make the evening more passable."

Watson turns the flask over in his hand. It's not only full, but engraved, with, "Dr. John H. Watson", which is entirely formal, and rather nice to see.

"I have also," Mycroft continues, pausing only to down half his drink in one single swallow, his hand making the glass look as if it might have belonged to a child, "taken the liberty of reserving a table for you at one of the finer restaurants in the area. 8pm. I'll send a car."

"Do you usually do this?"

"I have tried, in the past. It hasn't always gone well. But this year, I think he will take better to things. He'll certainly prefer dinner with you to dinner with me."

"And you're sure you won't join us?"

Mycroft smiles with a warmth that is about as surprising as the fact that he's here at all. "You really are a good man, John. I won't, because I think we could all skip an evening of pointed jibes and I certainly don't need my little brother commentating on my meal choices - incidentally, you really must make him order the steak tartare; not only is it delicious, but the boy could use some red meat in him, if you'll pardon the expression - and anyway, I have a prior engagement of, as ever, considerable importance..."

John nods. There are days where he finds himself to be an endless stream of reaction, but, being as the rest of his days are full of medical responsibility and the occasional flash of actual action, he's willing to accept this, and is coming to quite enjoy these monologues to which there is no real reply.

"We will meet in nicer places soon, Doctor Watson, of this I assure you. But for now, ensure my brother continues to have a good day, would you? I think perhaps that this year, for once, he deserves it."

"Well, I'll...do what I can."

"This is all any of us can ever do."

"Right."

So when John gets back to Sherlock, and hands him the envelope, it's only with some trepidation. On the way up, he passes Mrs. Hudson, dusting the skirting boards.

"How old is he, anyway?"

"Sherlock? Oh, I've no idea, my dear. He could be anything, couldn't he, bless him. He seems in good spirits, though. He does like that toaster. He's a peculiar sort, certainly, but you know, Doctor, I am so very fond of him."

"I know."

"Not as fond as you, of course, but..."

John hides his face behind a hand for a moment, and then simply continues up the stairs.

"About time!" Sherlock says, when John walks in.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're the one that asked me to leave."

"Yes, but that was hours ago, and you should know by now that I can only occupy myself for so long without stimulation..."

Clearly this is a very strange kind of day indeed, because John truly can't tell if he's trying to be funny, or not. He notices, though, that the jar of Marmite is empty on the table, and has a fork sticking out of it. As if Sherlock wasn't strange enough on a regular day, who knows what he might be like with that inside him?

Sherlock opens it carelessly, in stark contrast with his wrapping paper attitudes, and withdraws a ticket.

"Oh, but how kind. A box for La Traviata at the Royal, on Monday. I can't tell you how long it is since Mycroft bought me something so thoughtful."

"La...which?"

"Verdi, John. Verdi. You'll love it. You'll have to find something better than that to wear; I won't have you bringing us down."

"We're also going for dinner somewhere tonight," John says, ignoring the slight. "You're to have steak tartare."

"How kind," Sherlock repeats, rolling the words around his larynx, as if they're unusual to him, which, of course, they are. "It's been a long time since..."

He doesn't finish the sentence.

"You're supposed to have Marmite on things, Sherlock, not straight out of the jar."

"Really? I found it pleasant to discover a food that actually tastes of something. I hope you weren't expecting me to share my birthday present?"

"No, it's just...you ate an entire jar of that?"

"Lunch was not forthcoming, as you know, having not brought it to me."

"And you weren't sick?"

Sherlock looks as if he's wondering about this for a moment. "No." He looks briefly disappointed. "Should I have been?"

"Oh, I really can't. How's your toaster?"

"Broken."

"Phew," is John's immediate response.

"Fortunately my experiments were fruitful, and I believe some parts are salvagable. I've always meant to concern myself a little more with electronics..."

"Mycroft's sending a car."

"You'll need to change. Come, you can borrow something of mine."

"You really are in a good mood, aren't you?"

"It's my birthday. I'm over the moon." The tone doesn't match the content, but Sherlock's eyes do, and it is, again, rather pleasant.

And when, over dinner, John recounts the tale of the ballerina and the shoes and the hair and the drunk, and when Sherlock matches it up with something about a stolen Faberge egg, he is so very excitable that he spills a glass of wine right across the table, and only laughs.

"How good of you, John, to save the best for last. There is no gift like that of a good case, none at all. Now. As it is my birthday, and I may say what I please -"

"Because on other days, you don't do that at all..."

"-and you have to listen, let me take this opportunity to thank you."

"What for?"

"Not for anything. Just to thank you."

"Well, thank you, too."

Sherlock reaches out, and squeezes John's arm. It's about as surprising as a hug. John just smiles.

Sherlock spends the rest of the evening discussing, with great glee, just how the egg and the shoes fit together, detailing some observations they might make to consolidate the evidence tomorrow, and throwing in some choice observations about the woman in the flat over the road that he picked up whilst curtain-twitching during the toaster experimentation times.

It is, he reflects, much later, the happiest he has been in years. He could not want for more. Except, perhaps, another jar of Marmite.


End file.
